Epilogue: Who We Are
by L J Groundwater
Summary: Taking place after 1:10 (Anslo Garrick Part 2)... just a short thought about personal motivation, and perceptions turned on their head.


Just a short scene after 1:9 (Anslo Garrick), with ideas of it being after 1:10, though it has not yet aired... Please tell me what you think?

* JSTB * JSTB * JSTB * JSTB *

Agent Keen watched with something akin to amazement as Raymond Reddington meticulously but apparently without attachment wiped his arms and hands with the towel. "Cooper said you begged him to open the box when Dembe had a gun to his head. That you said you'd give him anything."

"I did," Reddington said matter-of-factly. Only the briefest pause as his eyes lit on the pale red of washed-away blood on the cloth. He said nothing, then resumed his task.

"Why did you do that?"

Reddington's eyebrows quirked slightly, and now he paused and looked at her as though mildly reproachful. "I did it for _you_, as well, Lizzie," he reminded her.

Elizabeth Keen dropped her eyes. "I didn't mean—"

"That Dembe isn't worthy of the same devotion as you? No, of course not," Reddington said. But his tone didn't match the conciliatory understanding of his words. He turned back to his work, ran the towel over his head, and then hung it up neatly next to the sink.

She felt compelled to explain. "I meant—I meant everything you did today. It's out of character for you."

"Is it?" Reddington asked, interested. He turned and looked at her.

"Yes," Keen persisted. "Raymond Reddington cares about Raymond Reddington. And yet today you saved Agent Ressler's life—"

"I prefer to call him Donald."

"—you pleaded for Luli's life. You were willing to be tortured for Dembe's safety. And me—"

"And _you,"_ Reddington echoed. Keen stopped. Swallowed. "Sounds like more of a pattern than an aberration, don't you think, Agent Keen?" he prompted. Then his voice grew hard, an indicator to her that despite his outward appearance he had been deeply affected by the events of the day. "Or perhaps I'm just toying with you. Because today was such a picnic, it was the_ perfect_ time to play mind games."

Reddington moved past her into the lounge area of the suite. She followed as he went to the well-stocked bar and poured himself a scotch. He held the glass up to the light from the balcony doors, studied it. "Golden," he admired emptily in a murmur. He took a fast shot of the drink, put the glass back on the bar. "Agent Keen, you are safe and you are free to go," he said to her.

She didn't like the dismissal. Although she was almost always uncomfortable around Reddington, usually it was because of something he said or did. This time, she felt like the discomfort was her own fault—and she felt guilty for being hurtful, even though it had been unintentional. Hadn't it?

"Reddington, I'm... I'm sorry you lost someone you care about," she offered, quietly.

Reddington regarded her for a moment without saying a word. Then he answered softly, "You don't get used to it, Lizzie. Even in my business. And you _never_ get used to being responsible for it."

Keen couldn't help but notice the tinge of sadness in his voice. "You prayed with Dembe."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Dembe. You prayed the Surah Ikhlas from the Qur'an with Dembe."

"He's Muslim," Reddington announced. "It's recited when someone thinks or knows they're dying. I didn't think Harold would recognize it."

"Are you Muslim, Reddington?"

"Is that important?"

"No; I'm just curious how you knew it."

"I've been exposed to many cultures and religions. It was what Dembe needed at that moment—and what he deserved."

"You must have prayed it many times to be able to call it up so quickly like that."

"Must I?" Reddington raised his eyebrows again. "I've certainly heard it often enough." He shrugged, moved back to the balcony doors and looked out. "Actually, it's not my personal cup of tea, though I do pray."

"You do?" Keen asked.

Reddington chuckled and glanced back at her. "Does it surprise you that I believe in a God? Even if he's not called Allah?"

"Well, no, I just—"

Reddington shook his head and chuckled. "Not part of my profile, Agent Keen?" he asked. Then he grew serious. "No one is what they seem to be, Lizzie. I've told you before. And that includes me."

Keen stumbled on. "If that's true, then, Reddington, aren't you worried about what happens when—?"

This time Reddington threw back his head and laughed. "The moral high ground! It almost suits you. But we are a lot more similar than we are different, Lizzie."

"That's not true," she protested immediately.

"Really? Perhaps. For instance, I was willing to be tortured and killed for Dembe to avoid being executed. And I was willing to do the same for you." His eyes pierced her. She forced herself not to look away. "Would you have done the same for me?"

"Yes."

Reddington nodded. "Because it's your job. It's not _my_ job, Lizzie. I did it because I wanted to. Not because I had to. Not because of the moral code of some institution. But because of _my own_." She didn't have a response. "Is that who _you_ are, Lizzie?"

Her mind reeled and she couldn't think of words to say. Reddington waited a moment and then said, "I'm tired, Lizzie. Go home. I'm going to go to sleep. Then, maybe, when I wake up, I'll be who you think I am again."

Then he walked past her into the bedroom, and closed the door.


End file.
